Author Archives: KBarton10

Where we find more ways for you to use butt ends and random clippings

I’ve always called it by what it’s good at doing, combining all manner of leftovers into a “chaos wrap”, which tames a gaggle of unruly and dissimilar materials into something cohesive on your hook shank.

As well as melding unrelated objects it can right-size materials that are too long, and add some thread spine into those that are too fragile, as a double strand of thread can add toughness to thin or brittle stems, ensuring that damage is no longer catastrophic and feathers no longer unwind.

It’s also exactly the kind of shaggy I’m looking for when I marry shad’s brightness with trout’s buggy, as unlike the gentle presentation of trout flies, these will be slapped on the water via shooting head and all the G – forces commensurate with a swearing angler and his double haul.

Mats_In_Loop “Dubbed Loops” have shown a bit of a resurgence of late, and have always worked well converting hair and fur into hackle for big nymphs. Less well documented is their ability to mix a variety of materials into a single strand, and with a judicious stroke of scissors, can offer new opportunities for feathers that are too big for normal attachment and winding.

Above is a tuft of Red Fox Squirrel, dyed teal, and Peacock Angelina that I’ll marry as the thorax of a caddis design. I’ve cast a dubbing loop around the shank and tied it off, and inserted the three materials as a single pinch. I’ll push them collectively up the thread close to the hook shank, then spin them within the loop until the thread tightens around the butts of all three materials.

In the photo above, the material on the left side of the thread will be the portion I’ll retain and wind onto the fly. The material to the right of the thread will be trimmed close to the thread once the thread has started securing it in the loop.

trimmed_buttsResizing materials that are too long for the hook shank is done by pulling only a fraction of the material through to the left side of the loop, just enough to match the length of the legs needed for the fly, trimming the balance when semi-secured.

At right is the loop beginning to spin the materials into a “hackle”. I’ve trimmed all materials on the right side of the thread and will continue spinning the loop until the materials can no longer be pulled from the thread.

semi_tamedI’ll attempt to persuade the materials to clump on one side with finger pressure or saliva, but as the materials have been spun like a rubber band, they will resist your efforts to tame them.

Instead I’ll focus on sweeping the material back as it’s wrapped onto the fly. This will minimize the amount of trapped fibers, as well as encourage the strands to sweep over the rear of the fly.

Touching up the thorax area with a bit of Velcro will add a hint of fuzzy  free trapped materials and assist them to meld into a cohesive collar as they sweep towards the tail.

Depending on the fly being tied, the distribution of fibers can be made to make either a symmetrical or asymmetrical hackle. Placing the fibers in a clump will yield the small amount of duck under the bug as shown below. Spreading the fibers out yield a traditional style hackle.

Green Caddis Shad Experimental

The completed experimental.  The transparent vinyl is wrapped over a base of flat gold tinsel, affording the abdomen a bit of “pop” and brightness. I’ve tied additional flies in pink and red just to see how traditional Shad colors fish with this caddis-style exterior.

Green trout-like shad flies

A groundskeeper uniform with rod taped to the shaft of my edger

We’ve looked them over with scarcely concealed avarice. Noting every curve, bulge and deep spot, and while our moral fabric is porous enough to exploit them with great vigor, we know our fantasy will end badly, beaten by onlookers and led away in manacles…

 

Golf courses always seem to have an abundance of lonely water hazards, and in spite of stiff dues and silly uniforms, there’s always some local claiming he’s witnessed some golfer drug into the depths screaming while hunting for an errant Slazenger.

Only players with PGA credentials, very special guests and perhaps course residents are allowed to fish Stadium Course waters, especially during the tournament. But area anglers should take a tip from the golfers that some of the best and most consistent fishing that anglers could ever hope for can be found in the water hazards and nearby ponds and lakes of golf courses.

-via Jacksonville.com

In my haunts, “PGA credentials” meant “Pretty Goddamn Athletic” and we’d hop the fence at dusk to fling all manner of terminal tackle at what looked like the deep end.

Getting permission to fish golf ponds can be challenging, particularly on private country clubs — which frequently offer the best action. But it’s worth the effort gaining access. Sometimes meeting and talking with the club pro is worthwhile. Explain you’ll not interfere with golfers on the course, and all fish will be released unharmed. Some golf courses are closed on Mondays, which is a prime time to fish their waters, and permission to fish is more easily obtained then. Dawn, dusk and night fishing is worthwhile because golfers are not on courses, and anglers don’t interfere with play.

The author of the article points out a number of ways to appease the local country club stiffs, and is therefore worth the brief read.

It’s not surprising to find out that access is rigged, despite what the club house sign proclaims. The Green Jacket entitles you to all manner of accommodation, including permission to fish for largemouth bass so big as to threaten the local grade school.

Rod making economics explained using Kentucky Windage

Ever mindful of the luxury of a readership whose unflinching interest in fishing related minutiae knows little boundary, whose tastes for gross exaggeration and half truths are met with unwavering good humor,  I’ll reveal why your fly rod will double in price over the next four or five years.

… and why you may skip a few mortgage payments simply because everyone else is doing it you may want to lay in a couple extra given the circumstances.

Shifting graphite demand trends are driving prices for the flake variety to all-time highs, a fact not lost on investors or the companies scrambling to produce it. Market capitalizations are bouncing higher for companies across the board, from early stage explorers to others closer to actual production.

Investors’ burgeoning romance with the graphite industry follows another love affair with rare earth companies, key to technological innovations in components for vent fans, jet engines and laser-guided systems for smart bombs.

– via the Globe and Mail

With the graphite market at all time highs and increased use forecast across a multitude of industries, we’re sure to hear some rod maker claim how his costs  are climbing exponentially and a thousand dollars isn’t near enough to break even …

… and were we to guess what it takes to build a typical fly rod given the current market, economic upheaval, a luxury industry, and a vendor trying to make up for a downturn in sales, will fact support such an outlandish claim?

The enthusiasm around Canadian graphite companies is almost palpable, and not for the first time. Many of the deposits being looked at today were already close to being put into production before they were shut down in the early 1990’s when No. 1 producer China raised output and prices fell to about $600 (U.S.) per tonne from more than $1,300 per tonne in the previous decade. Today, flaked graphite can fetch as much as $3,000 per tonne.

Cursory evidence (above) suggests raw graphite prices are in lockstep with rod prices. A Fenwick HMG rod in 1992 was between $250 and  $300, and in the 20 years since both the price of rods and the price of graphite per ton have increased five fold.

The US isn't in the top 10

Guess-timate Portion, containing unsubstantiated obscene profits:

If we assume the amount of raw graphite needed to build a paper-backed sheet of graphite is about three times more than what lands on the paper (loss and compression in the manufacturing process) and the typical three ounce rod is half epoxy resin and half graphite scrim, then about 6 ounces of graphite will be needed to make a single rod.

A metric ton (tonne) is 2204 pounds (35,264 ounces), which based on the above rationale, will make 5877 graphite blanks. Based on today’s prices, the raw material costs of making the paper-backed scrim … is all of fifty-one cents.

In between them and us is a lot of folks screwing a lot of other folks.

… and a goodly amount of manual labor, regular capitalism, insurance, 401K’s and the overhead of a trained workforce.

In Spring an Old Guy’s thoughts turn to divorce, or the encroaching Bony Silver Menace

The physics of it all dictate lighter and smaller, the biology suggests buggier, and all the painstaking research says we’ve only scratched the surface of their depravity, as their tastes might range from drab to the ridiculously bright.

Physics because there’s a lot less water and rather than flinging high atomic weight, I may drag bottom with bead chain. Smaller because the absence of all that water suggests the prey may well be discriminating – shy of big flies in that shallow water …

Biology because the off season led to a wealth of papers on the American Shad, their eating habits, and my surprise to find out that the reigning angling wisdom on what and how they eat – has no basis in reality.

… and while they might seine all manner of smallish creatures in the salt and brackish estuaries (mostly small shrimp from stomach samples), the oddity of their attraction to bright colors may well be that of an expatriate dining on foreign cuisine – snacking on visual cues or the opportunistic feed when an item resembles something familiar.

Which is all that a burgeoning fly inventor need know … armed with a pocketful of bright will still work, but a cornucopia of experimental caddis and mayflies, minnows, moths, tee shirts, tennis balls, and discarded Doritos, might actually yield a Secret Fly of Complete Shad Dominance (SFoCSD), something that’s rumored to have surfaced many times in as many zip codes.

Number10OJ

I’ve got a pocketful of unknown and untested and am proof against both parking lot catcalls and all-knowing snigger. I’ve got buggy and somber, drab and motile, bright and bug-shaped, and every other combination a fertile mind can summon …

… and now I’ve got them in trout sizes, out of respect for low water …

You lads can flee to elevation and keep all those fragile trout company while I defend the local waters from the Silvery Invasive Menace surging upriver from the deep. All those bony palates, buck teeth, and feelers, paired with loose morals and lower standards, exactly what’s needed to keep a fly dresser thinking he’s distilled pure genius to a hook shank.

“Send picture of boat” don’t qualify

As this is another “travel week” you’ll have to find other sources for your noon chuckle. As I hear so few true fishing jokes I felt obligated to share.

A woman goes into Cabela’s to buy a rod and reel for her grandson’s birthday.  She doesn’t know which one to get, so she just grabs one and goes over to the counter.

The clerk was standing behind the counter wearing dark shades.  She says to him, “Excuse me, sir.  Can you tell me anything about this rod and reel?” 

He says, “Ma’am, I’m completely blind; but if you’ll drop it on the counter, I can tell you everything from the sound it makes.”

She doesn’t believe him but drops it on the counter anyway……He says, “That’s a six-foot Shakespeare graphite rod with a Zebco 404 reel and 10-LB. Test line. It’s a good all-around combination, and it’s on sale this week for only $20.00.”

She says, “It’s amazing that you can tell all that just by the sound of it dropping on the counter. I’ll take it!”

As she opens her purse, her credit card drops on the floor. “Oh, that sounds like a Master Card,” he says. She bends down to pick it up and accidentally farts.

At first she is really embarrassed, but then realizes……there is no way the blind clerk could tell it was her who tooted.  Being blind, he wouldn’t know that she was the only person around?

The man rings up the sale and says, “That’ll be $34.50 please.”

The woman is totally confused by this and asks, “Didn’t you tell me the rod and reel were on sale for $20.00? How did you get $34.50?”

He replies, “Yes, ma’am. The rod and reel is $20.00, but the Duck Call is $11.00, and the Catfish Bait is $3.50.” She paid it and left without saying a word.

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Despite our best efforts and countless casting clinics, many children slipped through the cracks

GQ magazine was kind enough to share a tidbit with me on America’s Best Fishing, which confirmed our worst fears on the burgeoning Metrosexual Menace…

Detroit, San Diego, and Charleston, South Carolina. No mention of the piney woods, clean water, or any activity liable to soil a silk shirt. “The Real Outdoors” is for vacationing family guys, or worse, hideous and boring father-son outings.

But there is a better way to fish. You don’t have to buy waders or waste a long weekend in neck-beard country. We’ve found places where you can spend a day kicking back on the water, rod in hand, trolling for redfish—or, hell, battling a shark— then hit the city for a mind-blowing dinner and a stiff drink.

– via GQ.com

There’s considerable silver lining knowing the fashion conscious won’t be crowding us for space on the creek. While we’ve had numerous dinners that “blew”… the only “mind blowing” meal in recent memory was finding a room temperature sliver of beef jerky from last season, which I gulped gratefully with a palm full of branch water.

That image is a load of shit. There is no dock. The lake is a mosquito-infested bog twenty-three miles outside Moosejaw. And our grandpappy was a mean drunk who smelled like a Burlington Coat Factory.

I love it when they get all masculine and “edgy” … but they wilt soon enough when they find there’s no place to plug in a blow dryer.

That’s your career light blinking so fiercely

Most have participated in similar rites of passage, wherein a casual watercooler conversation makes an impression, and now one or more of your coworkers really-truly wants to go …

… which always takes you aback, given that you didn’t expect your recital of heroics would appeal to the metrosexuals listening, and what was an idle conversation has now become a huge liability. Largely due to your story that picked the venue and set the itinerary, and the balance being all the hot air you laid on so thickly when you guaranteed everyone enormous and hungry fish …

Worse is Poppa’s sage warning echoing in your ears,  “… one guy is a fishing trip, two guys is half, and three is no fishing trip at all …” – and instinctively for the workplace crowd that goes double.

A short time later you’re engaged in a work related issue when a questionnaire lands in your Inbox …

On a scale of 1 to 7 with 7 being the highest, you need to rate the following requirements for a 3 night fishing trip:

  1. Catching an adequate number of fish which I peg at 6 or 7 per day –

Response

fish·ing

1. the act of catching fish.

2. the technique, occupation, or diversion of catching fish.

3. a place or facility for catching fish.

I would have to bow to the dictionary and make this a Seven. If we equate what you do in sexual terms, we’d have to describe it as, “traveling great distances to escape responsibilities and family, to play with ourselves and get muddy.”

“Fishing” as defined by the rest of us, is the heroic deeds associated with dominating a watershed, extincting anything tasty or large, and giving the balance a sore ass.

       2. Opportunity to catch a trophy trout ( 17 – 20 inches) –

I would have to give this a Seven. If I wanted something other than the largest fish equipped with the biggest teeth, I’d go to a pet store and torture goldfish.

  1. Scenery (Lake Manzanita and Yosemite are nice places with Gunfire Lake not offering much scenic beauty)

Again with the Seven. I want a stunning postcard-worthy vista, so I can scorch most of it with a campfire, and tear the rest out freeing my flies from tree limbs.

  1. Number of &%#%(  people fishing in my personnel space. –

ONE. I don’t feel obligated to share anything with the Human Race, despite their attempts to share empty beer cans, water bottles, used diapers, and discarded condoms, with me. None of those make a campsite homey, nor add to the woodsy ambience I seek.

5.      Available showers –

ONE. Only pussies and rich boys shower. In fact, you can’t appreciate the woods without smelling like armpit and wood smoke.

6.      Clean bathrooms –

ONE. Do Bears S*it in the woods? If so, you should be thrilled at the sight of a discarded Doritos bag and a handful of Poison Oak. Only Pussies s*it in toilets. Toilets were invented so that dumb SOB’s wouldn’t get any on their feet, are you a dumb SOB?

7.      Fees to access private lakes –

ONE. If I wanted to pay fees I would shop Safeway. You are not a PREDATOR is someone s*its fish into the mud, so you can snag them. That type of fishing is for guys that need showers and flush toilets, not us lean and hard Outdoorsmen …

8.      Float Tube opportunities –

ONE. Float tubes are for Pussies. If God wanted you to float about a beautiful lake while finning comfortably from a sofa, he would have made you a discarded water bottle.

9.      Driving Distance In time from Woodland / Davis….3 hours is reasonable with 6 hours out of the question –

ONE. Distance from Woodland or Davis is not the issue, distance from the closest beer is what matters..

10.     Dry fly-fishing options –

ONE. Dry Fly Fishing is merely an excuse for you to borrow flies from me and never pay me back …

11.     Rock hopping small creeks –

Seven. If you outfish me – I can chase you upstream and throw rocks at you..

12.     Lodging facilities (camping or hotel) –

ONE and SEVEN. Occasionally I like to s*it too.

13.     Meals…I don’t enjoy eating beef jerky for lunch and dinner –

ONE. What we’ve eaten in the past isn’t a meal so much as a room temperature abomination. Meals (in the woods) come from “greasy spoons” on cracked plates carried by gum chewing high school girls adorned with a poorly disguised scowl reserved for Old Dudes or their Dad.

14.     New destinations –

SEVEN. You outfished me at all them other places, let’s go somewhere I can catch something..

15.     Native fish and not recently planted by the D&FG truck –

ONE. Remember the excuse we rehearsed on our return? How “…it don’t’ matter we got skunked, just getting out is what’s important …”

(Hopefully that hygiene thing will scare ‘em ..)

The fast water at Mos Eisley. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy

Sith Lord's love fly fishing As I grow older I find it easy to identify with the Sith Lord, versus the insufferably righteous and preachy Jedi crowd.

For us fly fishermen the lure of the Dark Side seems more appropriate given how close the downward spiral that is fly fishing, mirrors that of intravenous drug addiction.

The eventual homelessness resulting from too much fishing differs from other forms of dissipation only because the fishermen can boast of better dental hygiene, his dilution of conscious mind and productive spirit being quicker than a frontal lobe dipped in opiates.

Both share the same dingy blanket, the same zip code, the same fortress of cardboard ensconced in some darkened alley, only in the depths of their depravity is real distinction possible; one unfortunate sold his parent’s car because he needed to score drugs,  the other stole his roommate’s Sage because he simply wanted it – and both crossed bridges never taken lightly.

Itemizing decades of self-destructive behavior and the eventual chilly, “stone-pillow” finale to some fresh-faced Jedi hopeful can never aid a Dark Lord in his quest for fly fishing converts. These details are best revealed after taking a fisherman’s measure, ensuring your plebe has the courage and fortitude to finish his training …

When they inquire as to whether conversion to the Righteous Path will hurt much, I omit the sobbing spouse, hungry children, and bounced checks, rather I’ll focus on their resolve in spin, bait, or fly terms, using the same time honored milestones used on me …

Like knowledge of the Outdoors version of the Prime Directive, Do you eat what you catch?

This is an easy question for a true sportsman. A floating softball that can be smacked clear of any fence, or whiffed so badly as to bring a rush of blood to the cheek. There are hundreds of possible answers, yet there is only a single correct one:

The Prime Directive:

If by act or deed I am successful with rod, gun or steel-belted radial, and my quarry lies bleeding and lifeless at my feet, or is hemorrhaging and not long for this mortal coil, I will dispatch it in all haste, and endure the consumption of its flesh … with wrinkled nose, and with as much ketchup as is possible.

While other answers exist, involving lofty ambitions like catch and release, respect and care for an adversary, and serenading with harp music, the ugly truth is that at some point the hook is so large or so deep that we’ve kilt our foe, even if it was an accident.

With special regulations and “no kill” zones, obeying the Prime Directive is made more difficult, but in the recitation of his answer a special gleam enters the eye of the fish-hating-plebe, as he recognizes a crack in an Immutable Law of the Outdoors, and will make haste to exploit it.

Like a World Series of Poker player, a Sith Lord notes these “tells” and is unmoved.

Loopholes are for the 1% to covet at tax time, or for lawyers who make their living unearthing them, not for the sporting fraternity in their element, where only the Prime Directive and an unopened Twinkie truly matter …

If a spin, plug, bait, or fly angler insists, “… the only fish that passes my lips are Gorton’s or Filet O’ Fish ..” – then you know this acolyte unworthy, his training to end in the pyrotechnics of Force-based petulance.

For those that pass the Prime Directive, the last great hurdle is calling the fisherman on his bluff. Does the thought of an opened jar of Powerbait baking in the airless interior of their car sends them careening about in an “ew-Ew-EW” dance?

Each area of the country likely has its own  odiferous, disgusting, or life-threatening  bait, used to distinguish real fishermen from wannabe’s. In my youth, and for the Greater Bay Area saltwater crowd, that would be provoking an angry Pile Worm …

… Pile Worm, able to sever a man’s finger in a single bite, possessed of thousands of cold, slimy feet, capable of strangling unwary beach combers in a many-footed embrace of constriction,  or so we thought.

They were the Miracle Bait, the Super Expensive Bait, only slightly better than their evil cousin the Blood Worm, which sent us young anglers screaming in fear, as unlike the Pile Worm, it had two sets of razors sharp talons …

Any fellow contemplating learning to fly fish shouldn’t break rank at the prospect of steel hooks entering extremities either under power or uninvited. Nor should he wince at the thought of the thousands of slimy feet in his waders should he lose his footing and ship some inboard, or whether ten fingers are better than nine …

… and why all this suddenly matters is my promise to escort a noob into the brown water Friday, and his insistence that a set of borrowed fly tackle is no problem due to the Force being strong within him.

An earlier interview failed him spectacularly on both the Prime Directive and the Pile Worm test.

… so I’m prepared for another episode of blisters, tears, and force based petulance, meaning I should carry a couple six packs of Go Girl and additional Twinkies …

… I just hope this time I don’t have to carry him back to the parking area like the last guy.

“ I know it smells bad, Luke – but you’ll still need to cover your face with it so the fish don’t see you.” – Darth teaches his son to fish …

By Wednesday there’ll be no reasoning with you, so digest this before you lose rational thought

As next Saturday is Opening Day of trout season in California, and lacking any true originality, most of you will be practicing your sudden onset of infirmity, or dry eyed and grief struck over the sudden death of a heretofore unknown close relative, and all this simply to cut out early on Friday …

… I figured I would add a bit of caution to your giddiness …

spitting_tricos

The above was taken yesterday in yet another fishless fishing trip among the sordid little ditches of the Central Valley. The white specs are not cottonwood dander or disturbance on the surface, those are Trico spinners – doing what they know best.

This is not normal for the end of April, this dense a flight bespeaks late May or mid-June.

As I’ve mentioned in other fishless posts of the past few weeks, the overly warm Spring has enabled most of the traditional insects to come off earlier than normal – and was I in a panic-rush for the Sierra, I’d be stopping at the fly shop and grabbing a fistful of bugs better suited to an early summer bite.

Forget the big drakes and salmonfly’s, go heavy on PMD’s and little yellow stones.

Consider it public service brought on by a moment of weakness. I’ll be skipping the Opener knowing hordes of desperate anglers will be crapping behind every bush to lull my Boss into thinking I’m the Perfect Employee. Naturally, I’ll “drop dime” on all absent brother-anglers who call Friday morning sounding like they’re within an inch of Death’s Door.

“Really, a kidney operation? Didn’t he donate both of those to his Grandma last year at this very same time ? … (snicker)…

And fly fishermen get the “evil torture” rap

I’d call it something like, “noble foe mistreated horribly, first by Monsanto, then by sushi-loving Hipster.”

Let’s eat Glow-Inna-Dark genetically-engineered, research fish despite their being finely honed scientific thoroughbreds, engineered for pollution detection …

… and that Glow Inna Dark thing, shouldn’t matter on the flavor dont’cha think?

 

Madam, what you were attempting to convey was, “Jesus Bob, this fish tastes like licking the inside of an aquarium accented deftly by raw sewage (and if the camera wasn’t rolling, I’d spit this crap all over you ..), and the cucumber does nothing other than make me want to hurl.

… I guess the wasabi was kind of strong … for dummies especially …